Wounds
by VoyICJ
Summary: The Housekeeper has always helped others stitch up their wounds, now she needs help stitching up her deepest one. Fits somewhere between 6x01 and 6x02.
1. Chapter 1

This is another offering for Chelsiefan71's gorgeous Unofficial Season 7 project. I had planned to write a second chapter for _Let this be Enough_ but that chapter refused to be written.

This story has been sitting on my desktop since Season 5 has ended. I've made some adjustments so that this might – theoretically – fit between 6x01 and 6x02. It is my attempt at explaining the Becky storyline but is still (probably) heavily AU. The story will have three chapters and is not as fluffy as some of you might like (though it's also not too depressing I hope). I ask you to give it a chance.

I'm sorry for the lengthy A/N, please be rest assured that I'll not bore you like this at the beginning of every chapter.

* * *

 **Wounds**

Charles Carson stares down at the large piece of apple pie in front of him with barely concealed delight. His second piece.

It almost allows him to ignore the indulgent smiles the female servants send his way. The Butler isn't sure how the rest of the servants found out about the discussion he's had with the Ladies of the House this morning but it is easy to forgive the gossiping footmen in light of the benefits the Butler has reaped for his kindness – including the second piece of his favourite dessert served to him by an emotional Cook.

In all honesty, he still doesn't quite understand what has happened this morning during the Family's breakfast. If he had paid more attention to the Ladies' conversation, he might not have been caught unprepared. Maybe he wouldn't have slipped and revealed that he had bought the house on Brouncker Road alone, that Mrs. Hughes had been unable to contribute.

It was only natural that the Ladies' curiosity should have been piqued by that – after all, the Crawleys paid higher wages than most and it had to appear strange to them that their Housekeeper had seemingly managed to squander all her money.

Charles had been forced to listen to them joking about gambling habits and secret children before he had been unable to take it anymore. He doesn't remember everything he has told the Ladies but he is rather sure that the words 'selfless' and 'saint' featured quite heavily in his short but impassioned defence of Mrs. Hughes.

When he had finished, he had been met with the wide eyes of Lady Edith and her Ladyship and a knowing smirk on Lady Mary's face. He's only glad that his Lordship and Mr. Branson have been away on business this morning.

Charles takes a deep breath and cringes when he imagines Mrs. Hughes' reaction. She'll, rightfully, not be pleased that he's been talking about her to the Family. He suspects that her Ladyship has already known about Becky's existence but that doesn't mean that Mrs. Hughes will not see the whole episode as violation of her privacy.

He's not had the opportunity to see his fiancé since breakfast. January is the month of inventory and she and her maids have been confined to the attics all day, inspecting boxes and furniture for mould or signs of mice, putting away Christmas decorations and noting down any broken items. Lunch was brought up to them in the form of sandwiches.

He has briefly entertained the hope that she might not have heard about the events of this morning but her maids are sitting around the table now and based on the looks they send him, they know exactly what has transpired.

Before long, he hears the staccato sound of her heels clicking on the floor and he sits up a little straighter, pushes the half-eaten piece of apple pie away from him.

She greets the other servants with a curt nod when she enters and he can immediately see that she is tired, exhausted even. Her tense posture causes him to tense as well and when she finally turns towards him, he feels himself holding his breath.

"Could you see me in my sitting room after I've eaten?" Her voice is strangely impassive, her eyes not really focused on him.

So he simply nods and excuses himself when Daisy enters to serve dinner to the Housekeeper.

* * *

It's an hour later that he knocks on her door and she opens it immediately, asks him inside and then closes the door firmly behind him.

"Sit down, Mr. Carson!" she orders quietly. The tight line in which her mouth is set lets him know that, unlike Mrs. Patmore, she is definitely not going to give him a reward for his kindness. "I think we should talk."

He accepts the tumbler of whiskey she presses into his hands, guesses that he will need the liquid fortification.

She is so tense and he had really hoped they would have moved past all of this by now. But he has violated her privacy and needs to face the consequences.

What worries him is the fact that she doesn't seem as angry as he expected. Instead she seems flighty, deeply uncomfortable – and that unsettles him more than any outrage on her part could have done.

"I heard about your talk with the Ladies today," she begins as she sits down and he cannot do much more than nod and wait for her verdict on his behaviour.

"There is something I need to tell you. I realize that I should have told you this a long time ago, but I lost the courage whenever I tried. I'm afraid you will need to rethink your words when you talk about me in the future."

He frantically wracks his brain trying to remember what it is he has said that she could have misconstrued. He had been worried that she'd be angry about his talking to the Ladies about her sister. However, he had not expected her to be displeased with his – honest – praise for everything she has done for Becky.

"I'm not….," she breaks off, glances around her sitting room as if physically looking for the right word. "… not the saint you make me out to be."

He scoffs at this, sits a little straighter. "Mrs. Hughes, I think that after twenty years of working together, I am more than able to judge your character and I can assure you that I meant every word I said today."

She can't help the small, touched smile that breaks out on her face. But it vanishes as quickly as it has come. "That is because you unfortunately don't have all the information."

He tries to speak up again but she silences him by putting up her right hand. "Please, Mr. Carson. I need you to let me have my say. Please do not interrupt me. I promise that you'll be able to voice your opinion afterwards and I promise that I will accept whatever you will have to say."

He tightens the grasps on his tumbler, his worry increasing.

"You told her Ladyship and Lady Mary that I sacrificed most of my life to care for my sister, but you are wrong about that. I sacrificed nothing."

His brow furrows in confusion but he keeps silent, forces his eyes to remain gentle.

"I told you that Becky was born not quite right in the head. I never told you more and you never asked… I assume out of some consideration for my feelings. The truth is that when Becky came into this world, she had her umbilical cord firmly wrapped around her little neck. She was already blue. The midwife thought she was dead, but when they had removed the cord and dried her off roughly, she suddenly began to take breath… Still, the damage had been done."

She pauses as memories flood her mind. Memories of the tiny, weird looking creature her mother had placed into her waiting arms. Even at barely an hour old, Becky had looked nothing like her cousins or the neighbours' babies had done.

"Becky remained utterly helpless for the rest of her life. She never learnt to walk or speak. She needed to be fed and changed, she required constant attention. Her moods were fickle. When she didn't like the food you gave her, she would spit it into your face. Sometimes she screamed in terror and no one knew what was wrong…" Again she breaks off. Allows herself a moment to remember the pain her younger self had felt at always coming second. At having to do her own work and that of her mother on the farm because Becky was no good for anything. The pain it had brought her whenever her sister had lashed out at her or – worse – her mother.

The fear and self-loathing she had felt the first time she had been tempted to hit her little sister.

"I began to… hate her." She closes her eyes. Can't bear to look at him now that she has shared her darkest secret with him. Afraid of the horrified contempt or the stunned disbelief she might find on his face.

Her eyes are fixed on her clenched hands in her lap when she continues. "My father died when Becky was 10. He was broken by years of doing it all on his own; by having the neighbours whispering about his lunatic daughter. I couldn't blame him for going.

I was 15 at the time and it became apparent that my mother and I wouldn't manage to keep the farm up and running. So we sold the farm and moved to a little cottage. My mother began taking sewing jobs from local women… most of them only interested in catching a glimpse of Becky to have something to gossip about in church on Sunday." She can't help the bitterness creeping into her voice.

"There were two possibilities for a girl like me. I could go and find a husband who'd help provide for us or I could go into service. The first option never appealed to me. Not that anyone would have wanted me…." She chuckles bitterly. "People thought Becky's condition must be hereditary; that we were either cursed or generally unfit to reproduce."

"The real reason, though, was that marrying would have meant living near my mother and Becky and I didn't want that. I didn't have the patience to deal with her fits. I didn't have the stomach to care for her like my mother did. I felt stifled by it all; by the constant consideration I had to show."

"So I ran. As far away as I could. Took the first available post in England and never looked back."

She startles when his large hand suddenly covers hers. The gesture pulling her back from her painful memories. She looks up and finds his eyes swimming with tears.

"You were very young when all of this happened. You can't blame yourself for having been overwhelmed."

Her sarcastic snort turns into half a sob as she removes her hand from his. She gets up and puts some distance between them. That dear man, still defending her, still wanting to believe only the best of her.

"I wish it were as simple as that. But I didn't change, did I? I only returned once while my mother was still alive and do you know what she said to me?" she asks quietly, almost accusingly.

He shakes his head silently, afraid that any further comment will destroy her carefully maintained composure.

"She told me that she was so proud of me, so thankful for my support, for sending so much money. And all that time I was in England thinking that giving up most of my wages was a blessing. That it bought me a way out of the oppressive atmosphere at home. Allowed me to enjoy the simple pleasures in life while my mother sat in that tiny cottage – alone and thanking the Lord for her helpful daughter." She feels the first tears of shame running down her cheeks, but she doesn't wipe them away. Figures that if her sordid tale doesn't put him off, neither will her tears.

"When you want to talk about a saint, you might want to talk about my mother. Do you know that she never once complained about her lot in life to me? Not once. When Becky threw something in her face, she wouldn't shout or abandon Becky's feeding. She'd simply wipe the resident goo from her face and continue. When Becky didn't indicate that she needed to relieve herself, my mother wordlessly cleaned her up. No matter how big Becky grew or how frail my mother became."

"Oh, I did hear her crying while I was home that one time… at night when she thought I was asleep – but I still didn't stay. When my week of leave was over, I packed my bags and left again – glad to be able to escape. I hugged my mother tightly and told her I'd be back but I never saw her again. The next time I returned, it was for her funeral a year later."

Elsie takes a moment to pull her handkerchief from her sleeve, dabbing at her eyes.

Charles has curled his hands into tight fists, his nails painfully digging into his palms. Unsure of how much more of her tale he can take before he breaks down in tears at the unfairness of life and the hand Elsie Hughes had been dealt. But he has promised he won't interrupt her and he will keep that promise. He'll let her get if off her chest, no matter how painful it is for him to listen.

"I packed up the cottage and moved Becky to her current home. She was nearly catatonic. I don't know how but she knew that my mother was gone. I had never seen her in such a state.

I was already at Downton at that point. Thankfully the whole thing happened during the season and Mrs. Winters was kind enough to give me a week off to sort my affairs. Dr Robinson helped me find the home at Lytham St Anne's." She remembers the kind predecessor of Dr Clarkson fondly. Recalls his gentle reassurances that the home, while extraordinarily pricey, offered the best possible care for people like Becky. "So I brought her to her new residence. Bought myself a few more decades of freedom by putting her into a care home."

"Before I left…." She stops. Takes a deep breath. She is so close to having confessed it all and she will not stop now.

She closes her eyes as she prepares for what she considers the worst part of her story, the last – most painful – bit she has to stitch up her wound.

"I went to see Becky again before I left. She looked at me, tears in her eyes and she grabbed my hand… as tightly as she never had before. As if she didn't want me to leave her as well. As if I was the only person who still held meaning to her. And I…." She feels the sobs building up in her throat. "I pulled my hand away, pressed a hasty kiss to her forehead and left."

She presses her hands to her face as the whole magnitude of her selfishness washes over her. She feels her knees buckle but she doesn't fall to the floor.

Strong arms catch her and pull her upright and then she is surrounded by him, safely cradled against his broad chest. She sobs against his starched shirt, barely able to catch her breath. Too exhausted and overwhelmed to moderate the noise of her crying.

He holds her as she cries her pain into the night; his own tears silently dripping onto the crown of her head.

With a start he realizes that this is only the second time he has allowed himself to draw her close. Apart from that one, that perfect first kiss, they have kept their professional distance. For a second he wishes that circumstances were different – that she was laughing joyfully instead of weeping bitterly.

But it is what it is and he is there and he can keep her steady and that is what he will do.

Charles tightens his grip when the scales fall from his eyes and he realizes why she has always been so intent on doing right by everyone all the time. Why she has helped fallen characters like Ethel and Grigg. Why she made sure that no one in the house has ever felt unloved or unappreciated.

She was atoning for her perceived sins. Giving others what she has never been able to give her own family.

"There you have it," she says when she pulls away from him some time later. Her voice hollow – empty like the rest of her. "Now you know exactly what kind of woman you proposed to. I will not hold it against you if you wish to reconsider your proposal. In fact, you probably should."

Against her resistance he draws her close again. Cradles the back of her head with his large hand.

"Never!" he whispers thickly into her hair and feels her sag against him.

He gently pulls back and she instantly rights herself.

"Forgive me, I know you must have things you want to say," Elsie says quietly; somewhat reassured by his hands that still rest on her shoulders.

He gives her shoulders a gentle squeeze, shakes his head. "Not tonight," he rumbles tiredly. He needs time to come to terms with what she has told him. He feels drained simply by listening to it all. Can't imagine what she must feel like.

"You need to get some sleep," he tells her softly. "But let me say one thing. There is nothing for me to forgive. Nothing you have told me changes my regard for you."

His voice is firm, his eyes honest, but she still finds it hard to believe him. How can he – a man of such upstanding morals – consider marrying someone as cold-hearted as her? How can he not see what a horrible hypocrite she is – always reminding him to be kinder to people when she has never been kind to her own sister?

But she's so very tired now and doesn't think she can bear more talking today. Best let him work through this on his own and face his decisions about them in the morning. When she's hopefully had some sleep and feels a bit more like herself.

So she simply nods and gives his arm a brief squeeze. She doesn't look at him again before leaving the room.

Misses the way his face and shoulders fall – the lone tear running down his face.

* * *

It's not as bad as it may seem now. I'd love to read your thoughts, so please (please) consider leaving a review. Thank you!


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you all so much for the kind reviews, favourites and follows. A special thanks to the guest reviewers, whom I couldn't thank personally.

* * *

She's surprisingly well rested when she makes her way down to breakfast the next morning. She had fallen asleep instantly after she had made it to her room and contrary to what she had expected, nightmares hadn't plagued her dreams.

Her apprehension grows the closer she gets to the Servant's Hall. She frets about what she will encounter.

Whether the other servants have heard her the night before, whether Charles will greet her with a smile or a frown.

For a brief moment that morning, she had debated taking a tray to her sitting room and avoiding the Servant's Hall altogether – but she may be a lot of things, a coward she is not. At least not anymore.

So she pushes her shoulders back and rings out a clear good morning as she enters the Servant's Hall. She's almost surprised when no one pays her any special notice. There are respectful nods and the occasional good morning in return but then everyone turns back to their conversations.

She breathes a sigh of relief and feels her stomach unclench when not even Mrs. Patmore sends her a compassionate glare.

Her stomach is quick to clench up again when the cook puts breakfast down with silent efficiency. It's Mr. Barrow who finally inquires after Mr. Carson's whereabouts.

Her heart sinks to the soles of her feet when Mrs. Patmore curtly explains that he had been called up to discuss something with his Lordship and that they were to eat without him.

Only now that he's not next to her does she realize how much she needs to see him this morning, to find out whether he has changed his mind about her and her character.

* * *

When she finally hears his steady footfall nearing her sitting room, two hours have passed. Two hours in which she has pretended to work on the linen rota but not managed to write down a single line.

She swivels around in her chair when he knocks, greets him with a solemn face. Gets up nervously when he steps inside and sits back down again heavily at his apparent confusion over her flighty actions.

He sits down opposite of her and she is reminded of a similarly uncomfortable conversation that had come about because of her dishonesty.

"I've spoken to her Ladyship," he begins and she tenses visibly. "You and I have been given two days off when the Family go to the Sinderbys later this week."

"Whatever for?" she asks hoarsely, can't make head nor tail from what he is telling her.

"To go and see your sister." He glares at her levelly, but there is a barely noticeable, nervous twitching in his left eye.

She gets up from her chair and takes half a turn around her sitting room. She clasps her hands together and unclasps them as she tries to formulate her reply. A large part of her is upset by his interference, by him going behind her back. Wants to strangle him for forcing her hand.

But the rest of her sags with relief over the realization that he will not leave her. That he is still there. That he still cares.

"It's hardly necessary for both of us to leave. I can take the trip myself. No need to bother you with it," she finally says.

He gets up from his chair and walks up to her, grasps her upper arms firmly but not painfully.

"We are to be married soon. Whatever is your burden will become mine. No man – or woman – is an island, Mrs. Hughes."

The corners of her mouth lift slightly at his words. He and his proverbs. She nods in agreement, grateful really.

He clears his throat and steps back. Glad that she has accepted his help; that she's allowed him in.

* * *

The train rattles them and she grasps the small parcel in her lap tighter. It had been on a silly whim that she had bought the gift for Becky. She's not even sure if her sister will appreciate it; recognize it for what it is.

His hand comes to rest over hers and she marvels at the way he's touching her so often now. So naturally and freely after years of restraint and distance.

"You never told me what's inside the box."

She turns towards him and smiles slightly. "It's a pin; a pin with a butterfly on it."

His hand keeps covering hers as she turns back towards the window. He's waiting patiently. Knows that there must be more to the gift.

"Becky has always loved butterflies," she begins her story in soft tones while she's watching the English landscape flying past the window. "She loved to watch them flutter around and would squeal in delight when they landed on her."

She can't help the gentle smile that spreads over her face at the memories. "Sometimes when I walked home from school, I would try and catch one to bring home with me. Just to see her smile, to bring her some joy when she had been forced to stay inside because my mother had had work to do."

His hand squeezes hers gently. He's smiling softly as well. Glad that she allows herself to remember the good times with her sister.

"When was the last time you've seen your sister?" He asks quietly.

"Two years ago," she replies and turns back towards him. Sees his eyebrows lift in surprise. She cocks her head at his reaction and he hastens to explain.

"I'm sorry; it's just that from what you told me I thought it would have been much longer than that."

She understands now and shakes her head. "After my mother's death, I usually tried to go and visit during the season. I've never stayed the night before, couldn't have afforded the hotel rates most of the times, but I went each and every year. Except last year that is." She sighs. She isn't sure how much good her visits have done, half of the time she hasn't even been sure whether her sister recognized her. But her guilty conscience had always forced her to return the next year.

"Of course, you had to come to London." He sounds contrite and she doesn't want that. She squeezes his hand.

"Don't worry about it, Mr. Carson. I'm glad I did." She smiles at him teasingly and loves the way his eyes light up.

Yes, she is immensely grateful for London and Brighton. Sunshine and sea and steadiness.

"So am I," he rumbles and with that both close their eyes and try to get some sleep before the emotionally draining afternoon that awaits them.

* * *

She's glad that he decides to stay behind when they finally reach the care home. He mumbles something about giving her some privacy with Becky first, but he doesn't fool her. She has felt him growing tenser the closer they got to the house. Has seen the way he blanched at the sharp smell of disinfectants when they entered.

Not that she blames him. Even though this is one of the more expensive establishments, it is no home. It is sterile, clinical and practical. The pale yellow on the walls the only attempt at providing something akin to cheerfulness.

She follows the ward sister and tries not to let her irritation at the woman's incessant talking show.

"Well, here we are, Mrs. Hughes. Becky has had a good day so far, but it's been a while since you've been here –"

It's the second time the nurse has alluded to her neglect of Becky and Elsie wishes now that she had allowed Charles to set the woman straight the first time it had happened right during the greeting. But she had stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm and a small shake of her head and he had acquiesced to her wishes.

"– and Becky might not recognize you right away. You know where to go if you need assistance." And with that the woman turns around and leaves her alone.

She can see her sister sitting in her wheelchair in front of one of the tall windows and she can't help the soft gasp that escapes her.

In the last two years Becky's hair has lost all its colour, the silvery white making her look older and frailer – reminding Elsie eerily of her mother during her last year.

She carefully walks over; taking in her sister's clenched hands, the way her head is tilted slightly to the side, the small dribble of drool that has fallen onto her shoulder.

The urge to leave is overwhelming but she will not run out. Pushing her shoulders back, she closes the last bit of distance between her and her sister and comes to stand in front of her.

Becky doesn't startle, instead her blank eyes slowly try to focus on the new arrival. There is no sign of recognition on her face. She looks at Elsie but the older sister gets the feeling that Becky isn't really seeing her.

When the silence stretches too long, Elsie begins talking about her journey. She rambles on about the landscape and the weather as she sits down in front of her sister, who is still looking at her solemnly – her eyes empty.

"I've brought you something," Elsie exclaims, her voice too high, too cheerful.

She unwraps the parcel and for a second can't remember why she wrapped the gift in the first place. It's not like Becky would have been able to open it on her own – not even on the best of days.

Elsie picks up the little pin and shows it to her sister. "It's a butterfly," she explains and bites her lip in frustration when Becky doesn't show any kind of reaction. Taking a deep breath, Elsie leans forward to attach the pin to Becky's blouse.

It's not easy because of the warped way in which Becky's body is positioned in the wheelchair and Elsie has to lean in even closer.

And that's when she feels it.

Her sister has brought a clumsy hand to Elsie's hair – the touch not rough but almost reverent. The older sister holds perfectly still even though her back protests against the uncomfortable position she is forced to hold.

She feels Becky lightly fingering her hair, the little toll of it she had artfully pinned to the side of her head in the morning. Feels Becky pulling the strand out of its confines with infinite tenderness before pressing it to her face, inhaling deeply.

Elsie waits for another moment before righting herself.

Becky's eyes are filled with tears as she looks at her older sister and Elsie can't help the rush of tears to her own eyes.

Without breaking eye contact, she removes her handkerchief from her sleeve and gently dabs at Becky's eyes and mouth before putting her hand to her sister's cheek.

Her thumb lightly caresses Becky's cheek and a few tears spill when her sister presses her face into Elsie's hand. Elsie doesn't want to break the spell of the moment, so she doesn't say anything.

Instead, she begins humming an old Scottish lullaby and suddenly their mother is there with them and Elsie can't remember the last time she has felt this complete.

* * *

This is how he finds them a short while later. His future wife tenderly brushing her younger sister's hair while humming softly.

He stops in the doorway and takes a moment to study them.

Elsie has prepared him for Becky's looks and while her physical deformations are plainly visible, it's the likeness to her older sister that captures Charles' attention.

"Are you coming in or would you prefer to stay there?" His fiancé's soft lilt reaches him and he has to smile.

He gingerly steps into the room and makes his way to the two women. Becky hasn't reacted to his arrival yet. He looks at Elsie questioningly and she nods her head encouragingly.

He comes to stand in front of the younger Hughes sister and hopes he doesn't scare her with his height, his stiff posture (but he can't relax, is too nervous to loosen the tight set of his shoulders).

"Hello Becky. It's a pleasure to meet you." He has carefully modulated his voice into a soft rumble.

Blue eyes look up at him in wide-eyed wonder and he forces himself to smile. But then Becky's eyes widen some more and she tries to turn around to her sister in agitation.

He steps back in alarm when Becky voices her disquiet by producing nonsensical little sounds, her hands flapping next to her body.

Elsie tightens her grip on her sister's shoulders, closes her eyes against the look of discomfort on Mr. Carson's face. Tries to quell the feelings of embarrassment and disappointment snaking through her body.

Although he has stepped away, Becky won't stop her anxious actions – becoming more and more frustrated as the others don't understand what she's trying to communicate.

Charles' shoulders slump when he catches the tears in Elsie's eyes. He shouldn't have intruded. He wishes he hadn't disappointed her, hadn't made this even harder than it already is.

He wordlessly turns to leave the room. He knows he is fleeing but he finds it impossible to deal with the situation.

When he takes a step away from Becky, the woman's noises increase in volume and he stops again. He looks like a deer caught in the headlights as he looks to Elsie for help.

The older Hughes sister takes a deep breath and squats down to her sister, tries to make sense of what Becky is trying to tell her – for his sake as much as her own. This painful situation has to end and fast.

"Maybe I should…," he tries but his voice only seems to increase Becky's fit even further.

It's then that Elsie knows what her sister is trying to indicate and she bites her lip – in relief, in distress. It's a maelstrom of emotion her lip has to absorb in this moment.

"I think," Elsie says quietly and her sister lowers her voice, obviously hopeful that her older sister will fulfil her wish. "I think she'd like you to sing."

"Sing?" His surprise makes his voice sound disapproving and he watches in silent horror as Elsie's eyes begin to cloud again. Then she lowers them, stepping behind her sister again.

"You don't have to, of course," she says and she doesn't mean it as a rebuke. She knows how difficult dealing with Becky is – how repulsed one can feel by her behaviour.

He starts humming lowly at first – hesitant, careful. So very set on making this right again. To prove his worth in this relationship, to be some sort of support and not an additional burden.

Becky quietens completely, her eyes focused on the man in front of her. A delighted smile eventually breaking out on her face.

Becky's reaction emboldens him and from somewhere the words come to his mind and he begins singing lyrics that he hasn't sung in years but that have never seemed more fitting than in this moment.

" _Dashing away with a smoothing iron…"_

His eyes lock with hers and the tears in her eyes tell him that she knows – everything.

* * *

As promised, there is one more chapter after this. Thank you so much for reading and if you left a review, I'd be very, very happy and grateful.


	3. Chapter 3

She winces as the frigid water laps at her ankles and out of the corner of her eye she catches him fidgeting behind her.

Madness he had called it when she told him that she wanted to put her feet into the surf. In January.

She is tempted to agree with him now that her toes feel frozen and she can't quite stop the rest of her body from shivering. Yet, she feels stronger for it. Invigorated somehow.

When his fidgeting intensifies and he begins making little grumbling noises, she takes pity on him. Taking a last, deep breath of fresh sea air, she turns around and walks back to where he agreed to wait for her. Tries not to laugh at the comical sight of him standing there, holding her stockings and her shoes; his expression a peculiar mix of discomfort and annoyance.

He steadies her while she slips back into her hose and shoes. His warm hands rest on her arm and her back – his touch uninhibited and unobserved. Not surprisingly, they are the only ones braving the biting cold winds rolling in from the west.

Her arm rests in the crook of his elbow as they make their way along the deserted promenade.

"Are you feeling better now?"

She knows he is not just talking about her cold feet. They haven't spoken much since they have left Becky's home.

She looks up at him and finds him studying her with soft eyes. Caring. Worried.

She sighs as she lowers her eyes again. She knows that he hopes she will say yes. That this one visit has magically made everything better.

"Nothing has changed," she replies quietly, gently squeezes his arm to alleviate some of the bleakness of her statement.

He wordlessly steers them towards a few barraged changing huts, comes to stand behind one of them. She is grateful for the protection from the biting winds. Can look at him now without having to squint her eyes.

"Was it a good day today?"

She is not sure where he is heading with this but she nods. It has been. Still, it doesn't change anything, doesn't make her a better person. Because in the end she will leave again and she will be glad that Becky is cared for by someone else.

He grabs her hands and regards her seriously. "I want you to listen to me now. No protesting until I'm finished."

She feels a smile tugging at her mouth at his grave expression but she reins it in, knows that he would not appreciate it.

"You did what you had to do for your sister…."

She has already forgotten her promise, opens her mouth but he jerkily shakes his head. "You did!" he insists and she closes her mouth again.

"You could not have cared for her without becoming a pauper, you said so yourself. Becky has special needs you could never have met, even if you had wanted to.

You could have abandoned her; you could have put her into an asylum. You didn't have to visit every year – saving for those trips. You didn't have to be prepared to forsake your own chance at private happiness in order to go on caring for her."

His hand is gentle as it lands on her cheek. His thumb tenderly brushes along her cheekbone and she cannot stop a tear from escaping.

"And if you didn't do all of that gladly, if at some point you might have felt that life was treating you unfairly, then it only means one thing…."

He pauses for a second and her breath hitches.

"It means that you are human. Not a saint, but human." He smiles softly at her. "And I am glad for it because as far as I know, marrying a saint is practically impossible. And I cannot wait to marry you."

He has barely finished his passionate speech before his arms are full of her. Her lips crashing to his as she flings her arms around him, claws at him in an attempt to pull him even closer to her. This dear, kind man who really does love her – warts, dark history and all.

"I love you," she whispers between kisses. Only when he tightens his hold on her does she realize that it is the first time she has ever said it.

"I love you too my dearest…. Elsie," he rumbles softly when they finally pull back again and he's proud of the shy, tearful smile his use of her first name has produced on her face.

She links her arm with his again and together they walk back towards the town centre. She lets her eyes roam over the rough sea for a last time and presses herself closer to her future husband – marvelling once again at the magical combination of Mr. Carson and the sea. Steadiness, love and peace.

* * *

Thank you to all the kind and wonderful people who reviewed. I am eternally grateful for your support. This goes especially to the guest reviewers, whom I couldn't thank personally.


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